


A long bleeding wound

by asuralucier



Category: The Godfather (1972 1974 1990)
Genre: Deferential Handjobs, M/M, Mid-first movie, Missing Scene, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:08:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28452138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Sonny is as steady as the blood pumping through his veins, even when life insists he’s going to nurse a long bleeding wound, as his father lies near death.There are some things Tom Hagen won’t do for the Don. Luckily, Sonny doesn’t ask.
Relationships: Sonny Corleone/Tom Hagen
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	A long bleeding wound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [borevidal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/borevidal/gifts).



> Many thanks to StripySock for betaing!

“I’m telling you, Tom.” As usual, Sonny is seething, anger seeping out of him from every pore. The man has always had trouble keeping his feelings to himself, but it doesn’t matter right now. It’s a good thing, Tom thinks, that the women have all gone to bed and they’re alone. “We gotta _do_ something. We can’t just be sitting on our thumbs and doing nothing. You get me?” 

“I get you,” Tom says. He’s bone tired and his watch tells him it’s nearly midnight. But instead of being in bed tossing and turning, he’s in the Don’s office, listlessly going through some papers, trying to read between the lines what’s not written down. It seems like a futile effort, with time slipping through his fingers like water. “Of course I do, Sonny. But you have to calm down, think it through.” 

Like Sonny, Tom wants answers, wants to take action. It’s the only thing he’s thought about for days, but where Sonny is blinded by his Sicilian temper, Tom is held hostage by his own new world fear, inherited from places he’d rather not remember. In America, this fear easily translates into paralysis. 

“ _You’ve_ been thinking,” Sonny says, striding towards his father’s desk with purpose. Tom has seen him walk up with the same swagger to countless, hapless guys just to punch them in the goddamn face. Tom can’t help but hold back a wince. “I know you have. And what’s that noggin of yours come up with, anyway?” 

Sonny takes a seat on the edge of the Don’s desk, and Tom has a weird, sudden and untimely memory of a teen-aged Sonny clambering on his father’s desk full of excitement and ideas as big as his head. 

Tom shakes himself. His head is not clear in the least, but at least he’s giving it the old college try. “Maybe I’m still thinking. These things take time.” 

Sonny reaches out towards him and flicks Tom square in between the eyes, something not unfamiliar. It hurts, but much less than a bullet piercing a precious artery or a sock to the jaw. Tom holds still. Waits for the pain to subside. 

“We don’t got time, Tom. Haven’t you been listening to a goddamn thing I said?” 

Sonny’s said a lot of things recently, and most of it at an inexorable volume. The louder he gets, the quieter and more guilty the house becomes. 

“...Lower your voice, Sonny. You’re going to wake the whole house up. Your ma needs rest.” Imploring Sonny to keep his cool might well drive him to do the exact opposite. But Tom knows the risks, he always has. 

(Sonny has punched Tom exactly once and meant it, when Tom had come home from law school with his head slightly larger than when he’d left the odd safety of the cordoned off street, _Via Corleone_. According to Sonny, he’d “needed the air knocked out of him.” Ruined Tom’s first suit that he’d bought with his first paycheck, and he’d had to wait until the next one to get it properly dry-cleaned. This was back during the days when Sonny’s hotheadedness was kind of a funny thing. Even the Don had laughed at the sight of Tom and his bruised jaw and broken nose, saying that this was a true sign of Tom’s place as Sonny’s blood brother. Sonny would never raise a hand against Fredo or Michael, but Tom could—and still can—take it.)

Tom hadn’t agreed at the time for reasons that spoke perfectly well for themselves. But thinking back on it now, he can laugh about it. As for whether he’s jonesing for an encore, well, that’s a different thing.

But mentioning Carmela seems to have done the trick, and the hardness in Sonny’s eyes softens, almost so much as to disappear. 

Never one to waste an advantage, Tom presses ahead. “Anyway, we got time, it’s nearly one in the morning. No good decisions are made this late at night. You ought to get some sleep.” 

“Bet you never talk back to my father this much as his _consigliere_.” 

“I do disagree with the Don sometimes,” Tom says. He feels a strange, intimate tiredness take over his body, and all of the sudden, the Don’s chair is much more comfortable than he remembers. “But ‘s not something we advertise.”

“Yeah?” Sonny shifts from his position on the edge of the desk and leans forward. Probably to remind Tom that he knows how to press an advantage too as well as the next guy, that he’s in charge. There’s a scant inch of space between them, and then almost nothing at all, and then the tiredness of days and days spent fretting about—thinking about next steps must be driving Tom stir crazy because—

(Another one time thing, come to think of it: Tom has seen Sonny’s dick exactly once. Entirely by accident and at the time, he’d viewed the incident with amusement and little else. And later Tom told Sonny that for all the talk around town about his manhood, having seen it for himself, the rumors were worth every penny.) 

“Yeah,” Tom says, and any intention he has of getting up from the chair and leaving evaporates along with the rest of his good sense as one of Sonny’s hands curls around the back of the chair, which means Tom can’t get up without upsetting the balance. 

Really, he should know better.

(That for all of Sonny’s rashness and heated rush to judgment, he’s unwavering in his goals, unabashed in his loyalty to those closest to him. He nearly always has an idea of where he wants to get to, even if he might not get there in the most straightforward way. Sonny is as steady as the blood pumping through his veins, even when life insists he’s going to nurse a long bleeding wound, as his father lies near death.) 

Sonny says, close enough now that Tom feels the heat of his wanting gaze and smells the slightly sickly scent of hospital disinfectant mingled with the familiar sourness of sweat, “...What else do you do for the Don that you don’t advertise?” 

It’s not an entirely unpleasant smell. It’s a smell of the living, of a man determined to live despite unfortunate circumstances. As if his hands are possessed by a secret want, laid bare by an hour that’s become just as secret. Tom presses a palm flat against Sonny’s chest. Tom feels Sonny’s breathing, the tautness of muscle beneath his under-shirt. Sonny’s inhale hitches, but Tom keeps his hand right where it is.

“If there’s something the Don wants, usually he just asks,” Tom says, and the clock that sits exactly opposite the desk chimes one. 

There are a lot of things Tom would do for the Don in his ever expanding capacity as _consigliere_. Just a few weeks ago—a whole other lifetime ago—he’d flown clear across the country to talk sense to a man who’d ended up with a severed horse’s head in his bed.

But there are perhaps other things Tom Hagen won’t do for the Godfather, for Vito Corleone. To his credit, Sonny seems to sense this. Doesn’t ask as much as he just takes. 

“Well, first thing, that’s my chair where you’re sitting. Get up. Show some respect.” 

Tom does, the tiredness in his blood since replaced by something else. A new, nearly youthful heat that pools in his groin and says, _fuck that it’s one in the morning_. 

Where Tom is wiry and tall, (“Splindly”, Carmela used to say, once she’d found that word in some magazine or other) Sonny chases him by a mere inch, he’s big and he knows it. Tom is only prepared for this in his head and when Sonny slams into him all real, all muscle, he’s not exactly prepared, but he’s able to grab a fistful of Sonny’s hair, keeping himself upright. 

Sonny doesn’t treat Tom as someone who might break. Tom won’t anyway. They’ve roughhoused plenty and this is that, but with less clothes involved this time. Sonny hisses when Tom bites his tongue. 

“I respect you, Sonny. But we got to be quiet.” 

Sonny opens his mouth, closes it. Decides to let his hands do the talking instead and while Sonny’s hands are undoubtedly more acquainted with wedding garters and lacy underwear, he does well enough tugging loose Tom’s tie, almost undone, before yanking the loose knot to draw Tom in for another kiss. This time, Tom is more prepared and he’s even able to leverage his advantage and shove Sonny into the chair he’d been so eager to claim just a moment earlier. 

And since Sonny’s sat down, the bulge in his pants is hard to miss. He smirks, not shy about it either. 

Tom gets on his knees, only looking up from undoing Sonny’s belt when Sonny winds up one end of his tie. “You wear this tie yesterday?” 

Tom had gone to sleep in his clothes yesterday at some godforsaken hour (or tried to) but that hardly seems to matter now. What really matters now, is that he undoes Sonny’s belt and takes out his half hard dick. Maybe it’s just Tom’s imagination but it seems bigger now that he’s holding it in hand. It’s certainly on its way, knows where it’s going like the rest of Sonny, sits twitching hard in Tom’s grip and it’s Tom’s turn to smirk. “You really going to ask me about my tie?” 

Sonny’s eyes slip close and he sinks deeper into the Don’s chair— _his_ chair—and juts his hips forward, but not entirely like he’s giving in. It’s important to Sonny that he maintain his authority anyway. Another tug at the tie. “Your Don’s asking you a question.”

“Then yeah, it was the tie I wore yesterday.” So long as that’s all Sonny is asking. 

Mostly because he wants Sonny to shut up, Tom gives him a good squeeze, feeling the motion ripple through the rest of Sonny’s body. He leans in close, and presses a kiss to Sonny’s abdomen, when he pushes up Sonny’s under-shirt. 

Sonny sighs, “’S not like I don’t notice these things.” 

Tom says, “I know you do. I just don’t want to talk about it.” 

Tom strokes him like that, lulling Sonny into a easy rhythm, up, down, and again, until he spreads his legs wider for more. A gentle grind of hips that finally seems befitting of this time of night and it doesn't have the aggressive energy that he’s known for around town. This is hardly the stuff of rumor. This is Tom paying his respects and Sonny not asking any more of him as the family’s _consigliere_. Nobody has to know about this.

When Sonny comes, it’s quick, hard but quiet, and Tom keeps a hold of him tight in hand. He catches sight of Sonny’s face, jaw clenched and skin flushed. It’s not pretty, but it’s something, even something that Tom would like to see again. 

Then Sonny opens his eyes, hooded and warm, looking at him in a silent ask. Tom’s decently hard, and yeah, he’d like it if Sonny’s rough hands jerked him off over and over until he— 

But it doesn’t work like that, and it only takes a minute for the tiredness to come creeping back, pushing away the desire until it’s back in its rightful place, where it’s certainly not talked about. Tom shakes his head and Sonny doesn’t ask again.

Tom wipes his hands clean with his tie, if only as a reminder to change the goddamn thing tomorrow. “Anyway, we got lots of work to do in the morning. Best to get some sleep.”


End file.
